


The Very Smell of You

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [48]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Stella returns to London alone





	The Very Smell of You

Stella could not remember the last time she was well and truly alone, not since she’d been married, at least.  Leaving New York, she’d been looking forward to the prospect of an empty house. Walking through the door of said empty house, spotting a pair of Hank’s shoes by the wall in the entryway and one of his leather jackets on the peg, she suddenly began to dread the week in front of her.

 

Although she’d called Hank when her plane landed and left a voicemail, she called him again as she sat down on one of the barstools in the dark kitchen.  The green light on microwave read 9:17 p.m. Her watch was still on New York time. She slowly turned the little wheel that adjusted the hour forward as the phone rang and she waited through the robotic introduction mixed with her husband’s brief greeting.

 

“You have reached the voice mailbox of: Hank Moody, muthafuckaaaaaah!  Please, leave a message after the tone.”

 

“Hello Watson.  Just wanted to inform you that I’m now at home.”  She paused, moving the wheel of her watch even slower as she neared 9:18 p.m.  “It feels different without you. Quieter, you know. I’m sure to get a lot done this week without you underfoot.  I love you. Speak soon.”

 

She did not know what to do with herself once she disconnected the call.  The house was clean, thanks to the service that kept things up when she went away.  There was a small stack of mail that she flipped through, but nothing looked terribly urgent or interesting.  Her case management reports were complete and any loose ends would need to be taken care of when she returned to work in two days to finish her remaining weeks in the office after submitting her formal resignation.

 

Upstairs, she took her time unpacking the small bag she’d brought with her and undressed to don one of Hank’s t-shirts.  She brought the collar to her nose, but it smelled like detergent, not like him, and she was disappointed enough that it occurred to her she should’ve brought one with her from the loft.

 

With a sigh, she crawled across the bed and rolled to face the ceiling.  Blindly, she stretched her arm out and picked up her phone to check if she’d missed a call or a text, but she hadn’t.  She opened the photo album and began to slowly scroll through pictures of the last four years, from one taken Sunday of Becca and Hank at lunch, all the way to the Malibu sunset from the deck of the beach house that weekend she took a chance and sought him out.  She took the time to study some of them and add others to a favorites album to consider having them printed and framed.

 

There was one photo in particular that she spent a lot of time on.  It was from their wedding day and Karen had taken it while they were having dinner up on the patio by the pool and had sent it to her.  It was close up of their faces with Hank leaning over to whisper something to her shoulder and she tipping her head towards him to hear him.  His eyes were nearly shut and her gaze was turned down so that they almost appeared closed. Her hair fell almost perfectly across her cheek nearly hiding the slight smile on her face.

 

When Karen had sent her that picture, a few days after they’d returned home, there was a part of her that had been embarrassed that a moment so seemingly intimate had been noticed and captured, even though she knew she needn’t be.  It wasn’t like it was a video of them fucking. It wasn’t like when her diary had been desecrated and forced into evidence during the Spector case. It was just a moment that any couple might have, but it may have been her look of happiness that had made her nervous.  Joy was something she had grown up believing should be kept private and unexpressed. That ingrained stoicism had served her well professionally. Personally, it had held her back.

 

Stella knew she was still a work in progress, but she now looked at the photo as a reminder of what she was capable of.  In this new life she was about to embark on, in her new office teaching at Columbia, this photo should be on her desk, like the hundreds of family photos on the desks of colleagues she’d passed every single day.  She sent it to her favorites and then nearly drained the battery of her phone testing a variety of editing features on it; turning it sepia or black and white, increasing exposure, softening the brightness, reducing the contrast.  In the end, the original stayed as it was.

 

After nearly two hours of browsing old photos, she finally put her phone down and turned out the light.  She rolled towards the space that Hank would normally occupy and fell asleep hugging his pillow.

 

Grey morning light had just begun to glow around the edges of the curtains in the bedroom when her phone chirped.  She reacted to it on autopilot, opening her eyes just long enough to see that it was Hank calling before she pressed the green accept button and sighed a hello.

 

“Did I wake you, Sleeping Beauty?” he asked.

 

“Mm.  Time is it?”

 

“In New York or London?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“Early.”

 

“I called.”

 

“I know.  Sorry I missed you.”

 

The hollow chimes of the doorbell echoed throughout the house and Stella sat up.  She squinted at the clock on the bedside table. It was shortly after seven. Early for some, but on a normal day she’d already be on her way to work.

 

“Someone’s at the door,” she said.

 

“At this hour?”

 

“Perhaps it’s the realtor.  She said she’d be around sometime this morning.”

 

“Be careful.  It could be Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

 

“I’ll see who it is.”

 

“I’ll stay on the line.”

 

Stella got out of bed, aware of her state of undress.  Hank’s t-shirt covered her neck to knee, but her breasts swayed freely and the sleeves gaped to expose her sides.  If it was the realtor at the door, she would ask her to wait so she could run upstairs and put something decent on.  If it was anyone else, she would ignore them. Her steps down the stairs were swift and silent. She knew where to avoid the creaks and how to be light on her feet.  Up on her toes, she put her eye to the peephole and then threw the door open.

 

“Oh, piss off,” she said.

 

“Can I interest you in a copy of The Watchtower?” Hank asked, disconnecting their call.

 

Never in her life had Stella been the type of woman who felt compelled to leap into someone’s arms the way romantic comedies would have one believe was commonplace.  She did have that impulse now, but she instead just wrapped her arms tight around Hank’s neck and let him lift her onto the tips of her toes as he walked her backwards past the threshold.  She kissed him just as he kicked the door shut and he laughed against her mouth as the cellphone still in her grip gouged his cheek. Her lips lost his as he let her go and she tried to drag him back down with her.

 

“Hang on, hang on,” he said, taking her phone from her and then tossing them both on the little table by the door.  He shrugged his jacket off and it fell to the floor

 

“Why are you here?” she asked.  “Why didn’t you just use your key?”

 

“I wanted to surprise you and someone once told me not to sneak up on anyone in law enforcement.”

 

“What about the meeting with your editor?  Becca’s therapy?”

 

“About an hour after you left, I just thought, you know what, fuck sitting around for another week just for a meeting.  So, I played the asshole card and demanded he bump me up to that afternoon and Becca told me she was a grown ass woman who could take herself to her own damn appointments and she’d just been indulging my sorry ass by letting me do it in the first place.  I mean, I tried to argue that anyone who says ‘grown ass’ isn’t that fucking adult, but she told me she learned it from me in the first place and I was an idiot. I was going to go into this whole I’m rubber, you’re glue thing, but I chose to let it go and changed my flight.  I like your PJs, by the way.”

 

“I missed you.”  She rose up again and took his face in her hands so they could meet halfway in another kiss.

 

“I missed you too,” he mumbled into her mouth.  “And your morning breath.”

 

She didn’t pull away, leading him backwards with tiny pecks on his lips that he chased until she could step up on the first step of the staircase and be eye to eye with him.  She petted his chest from his shoulders to his abs, down and back, down and back. He twisted the hem of the t-shirt she’d made her nightshirt around his fingers, drawing it slowly up her thighs.

 

“Are we pathetic?” she asked.

 

“Probably.  Why?”

 

“We’ve not even been apart a full day.”

 

“It felt like weeks.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“So pathetic.  Hey, remember like three weeks ago when you thought we’d be able to spend months apart, no problem?”

 

“I was foolish.”  She draped her arms over his shoulders and he gripped her bunched up shirt at her hips.

 

“I know we fucked yesterday morning before you left, but that was in New York, and now we’re in London.”

 

“What if the realtor comes?”

 

“Well, if the realtor comes I am way more fucking talented than I ever gave myself credit for, but I’m only focused on you.”

 

“Wisearse,” she said, turning out of his grip to move upstairs.

 

“But, what specifically did you miss about me?” he asked, locking his arm around her waist and molding himself to her back so that it made it difficult to move and she gripped the railing with both hands, laughing as she dragged them up one step at a time.

 

“I can’t quite recall,” she answered with a tone of flippancy.

 

“My charm?  My wit?”

 

“What charm?  What wit?”

 

“Cruel, cruel woman.”

 

“Oh wait, there was one thing?”

 

“Tell me.”

 

Stella stopped, nearly at the top of the stairs, and turned.  She leaned in and pressed her face against Hank’s neck and breathed deeply, running her nose from his collar to his shoulder.  She sighed contentedly and picked her head up again.

 

“Did you just sniff my armpit?” he asked.

 

“That’s what I missed.”

 

“My unwashed pits?  That’s fucking gross, Sherlock.  And such a turn on.”

 

“The smell of you on me.”

 

Hank groaned and pawed at Stella’s hips, moving down a step so he could bend his head and try to get his face under her shirt.  She blocked his attempts and quickly moved up away from him. He groaned again.

 

“You can’t say shit like that, Sherlock, and not have it go straight to my dick.”

 

“Who’s to say that wasn’t my intent?”

 

“Fuck, Stella.”

 

“Meet me in the bedroom if you want to know just how much I missed you.”

 

“Well, get ready because you’re about to have the smell of me all over you in about thirty seconds.”

 

“Make it fifteen,” she called over her shoulder, just as she moved through the doorway and just before pulling his annoyingly fresh and clean shirt over her head and tossing it to the floor.

 

The End


End file.
